Sorely was the operative word.
And once more:
Not. One. Single. Regret.
fifty-five
The next twenty-four hourswere pure media mayhem.
Or at least that’s what I’ve been told.
Because I’ve kept strong and stayed off the internet, especially when I can only assume side-by-side pictures of Mateo, Jeremy, and me are being posted.
I did ask the group chat to give me a simple heads-up as to how bad we’re talking here, and they advised me to stay off the internet until the story dies down. After I explicitly asked, Denise did say that the link between Izzy and Isabella has been fully confirmed, and those old articles are unfortunately circulating again, although no leaked pictures have reemerged anywhere. A part of me believes Nick had a hand in blocking them.
Beth decided to keep Anna at her place for the day, since she’s still under the weather and because we have media camped outside our building.
My mom is joining them and making Anna some sancocho, along with some other Dominican food, since, apparently, Beth’s cooking isn’t “doing the job properly” to heal Anna’s simple cold quick enough.
I know Anna loves making Beth jealous when she mentions how good my mom’s cooking is, and a part of me believes she gets real pleasure out of her real grandmother and now surrogate grandma duking it out for her affection.
I’m burrowed cozily on the couch with a fluffy blanket as Mateo comes over and offers me a glass of wine.
I narrow my gaze and eye him suspiciously.
He laughs as he leaves the glass on the coffee table. “I come in peace… and with my penis in my pants. I promise. I’m pretty sure we almost broke it last night,” he jokes.
I drop the act, because who am I kidding? I was riding that bull like it wasn’t my first rodeo last night. But it’s always nice to give him a little attitude. It’s who I am, after all.
He looks at my open notes app and asks, “What are you up to?”
I’ve toyed around with the idea all morning, but just wanted to run it by Mateo first. “I was thinking about putting out a statement.” His expression seems shocked, but he urges me to continue. “When everything happened last time around, I felt so helpless, voiceless. But now, I feel like I have the power to use my own words, tell my own story, what I feel comfortable sharing about it, on my terms.” I shake my head. “When I said ‘statement,’ I meant posting screenshots of my notes app on my Instagram. I’d turn off the comments so that I’m not tempted to read them and just let my voice be finally introduced into the conversation.”
Mateo nods, his large hand rubbing along his short beard. “Do you know what you want to say?”
I pick up my phone and hand it to him. He reads it out loud.
Hi everyone, it’s me, Isabella.
I’m sure the internet is working overtime in light of last night’s events.
And although I have many thoughts on the matter, I’m not here to speak about the actions of two grown men.
I’m here to speak about myself and publicly use my voice for the very first time.
It’d be very easy to fall into the trap of he said, she said and speak of the headlines that plagued me five years ago.
But I’m not interested in speaking about things like my heartbreak or the feeling of betrayal that comes with infidelity, because I can promise you, that is something we can all survive, even if it takes some of us a little longer.
No, what almost broke me were words.
Words spoken of and about me on the internet.
Painful untruths that followed me long after the headlines faded in your memories.
Because while I was tending to a broken heart and public humiliation over leaked photos, it felt as though the world was sitting back and watching every tabloid write scathing articles about me.
While I sat in abandoned silence, picking up the tattered remains of my stolen girlhood, the media moved on to the next story, not caring that I was collateral damage.
